


body and soul

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Jazz Music, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:25:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6999514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I didn't know you were a jazz fan, Finch," John said, delighted. </p><p><i>"Well, it doesn't take much expertise to hear that this band is making a thorough mess of 'The Things We Did Last Summer,' does it,</i>"  Harold remarked dryly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	body and soul

**Author's Note:**

> based on a prompt by [lurkerviolin on tumblr.](http://dont-mess-with-the-pancreas.tumblr.com/post/145054905828/lurkerviolin-im-pro-finch-singing-to-himself)

John's jacket still faintly smells like cigarette smoke. Their latest number, George Coltrane – not his real last name, if John had to guess, and a pretentious choice on top of that – was a trumpet player in a jazz band. John spent a very long night watching him perform with his band in front of an audience of seven decidedly unimpressed people. At least John got to beat up a few bad guys in the backstage area later by way of compensation.

The best part of the evening was Harold's voice in John's ear, the faraway clicking of computer keys, the soft noise his porcelain cup made when he set down his tea.

"The only threat to Coltrane I can see so far is the possibility of dying of lung cancer sometime down the road," John said, sipping his drink: sparkling water with lime, disguising itself as gin tonic.

 _"Jazz musicians are notorious for cutting their careers short with untimely deaths,"_ Harold said through the earpiece. _"Many battled drug addiction throughout their lives. George Paxton, for example, committed suicide, while Chet Baker, known as the 'James Dean of Jazz' fell from the window of his hotel room in 1988."_

John hid his mouth behind his palm and grinned. "What about the real Coltrane?"

_"John Coltrane died of liver failure at age forty, if I remember correctly. His death may have been related to his long history of drug abuse. Interestingly enough, there is speculation that he started to use LSD in the sixties, which might explain the tonal change of his music in his late period."_

"I didn't know you were a jazz fan, Finch," John said, delighted.

 _"Well, it doesn't take much expertise to hear that this band is making a thorough mess of 'The Things We Did Last Summer,' does it,"_ Harold remarked dryly.

Back at his apartment, John can hear that Harold has kept the line open: it sounds like he is puttering around the library, possibly tying up some loose ends. John is tempted to ask for some more jazz trivia, but there is something comforting in the soft noises coming from the earpiece, so he decides to let it go. It almost feels like John is at the library instead of his own, empty apartment. It's easy to imagine himself there: he would be curled up on the couch with a book while Harold booted down the computer, and maybe they'd go and get some dinner later, catch a movie if Harold was in the mood.

John has just opened the door of his fridge when he hears it: Harold's voice singing to some silent melody, soft and intimate in John's ear. John freezes. He has never heard Harold sing before, he never even heard him humming to himself while he was working. Harold must have forgotten that the connection was still open, John thinks. He fumbles for his phone in his pocket and starts a voice recording.

Harold's voice sounds pleasant to John, even though his singing is decidedly off-key. Listening to him is soothing, a comfort like closing your cold hands around a mug of hot chocolate.

 _"My heart is sad and lonely, for you I sigh, just for you only,"_ Harold sings, and John closes his eyes and lets himself get carried away by the melody. " _Why haven't you seen it, I'm all for you body and soul."_

\--

John forgets about the recording for a while. There's always work to do, ways to keep busy, and he barely gets a chance to talk to Harold in private. Then, one night, John jerks awake in the middle of a nightmare, drenched in sweat and with his heart pounding furiously in his chest. He takes a cool bath and drinks a glass of water before crawling into bed again, but he can't manage to fall asleep: the fear is like a steel band wrapped around his rib cage, suffocating him. He reaches out for his phone and selects the recording. John presses play and lets Harold's voice soothe him to sleep.

\--

It becomes an indulgence, then a habit: as soon as John goes to bed, he turns on the recording and listens to Harold's voice. It makes him feel like Harold is right there with him, his breath warm against John's skin, his thumb stroking John's cheek. It's a harmless pleasure, John tries to tell himself. It's not like he's hurting anyone, or betraying Harold's trust or something equally dramatic. He just likes to listen to Harold's voice, that's all it is.

Or, rather, that's all it is until John falls off a construction platform while chasing a perpetrator and ends up doped up to his eyeballs with pain meds in the very soft, very comfortable bed of the safehouse with Sameen rolling her eyes at him and Harold looking absurdly concerned.

Sameen leaves them with enough opiates to start their own business selling prescription narcotics on the street and retires for the night. Harold keeps offering John food and water, fluffs up the pillow behind his head and adjusts the lights. "Is there something else you need, John?"

John's eyelids feel like cartoonish little weights are attached to them, and he can already feel himself drifting off. "Sing to me," John says. He's dimly aware that he's slurring his speech. _"I'm all for you body and soul–"_

\--

John wakes up to find Harold sitting in the armchair next to the bed, reading a book. When he realizes that John is awake, he marks his page and closes the book before placing it on a table. John has noticed that Harold never puts books face down, and watching people break the spines of books actually makes him wince.

"How are you feeling?" Harold asks.

"Like I fell off a building," John says, wiggling his eyebrows. Sameen has taken out the i.v. two days ago and put him on oral medication, and apparently John has overslept his last dose: his back is killing him.

"Very funny." Harold says. He hands John a few pills and a plastic bottle of water with the cap already screwed off.

"I'm fine, Harold," John says, smiling despite the way his back aches. He can see that Harold is itching to fluff up John's pillow again. John swallows the pills and drinks some of the water.

"You asked me to sing to you," Harold says.

John nearly inhales the water. He coughs a little. "Yeah, I was pretty out of it."

Harold tilts his head. "Is that so?"

John hands back the bottle. "You sang that song once. After the jazz case. I kind of, uhm. I found it soothing." John's ears feel hot. "I made a recording of it," he says quietly. "It helps me sleep."

Harold blinks owlishly. "You use a recording of my voice to help you sleep," he says.

John shrugs. It's a little hard to focus, he still feels woozy. "I have trouble sleeping," he says. "And it's not. It's not that hard when it feels like you're there with me. It calms me down."

 _"Oh,"_ Harold says, in the same tone he uses when he found the last few missing words in the New York Times crossword. "I see."

They sit in silence for a moment until John feels his medication kick in. The pain becomes more distant, a dull ache. He feels endlessly tired, but he tries to keep his gaze on Harold. "I really like your voice," John says.

Harold hums softly, and then his hand touches John's left cheek. John sighs and turns his head into the touch, blindly nuzzling Harold's palm.

"Maybe I can talk to you in person next time you have trouble falling asleep," Harold says gently. "Or sing to you, if you prefer."

John kisses Harold's fingers in lieu of a reply.

Harold pets John's head, combs his fingers through John's hair. _"You know I'm yours just for the taking,"_ he sings, while John is slowly slipping under again. _"I'd gladly surrender myself to you, body and soul."_


End file.
